The Divide
by bayumlikedayum
Summary: "There's a divide between us now," she says softly. He can't tell if she regrets it or not, this schism, but her tone is gentle. "Do you feel it?" Yes, he nearly says. He does. Her question goes unanswered, but they both know the words that lie in the silence between them. Spoilers for Last Jedi ahead. A four-chapter Reylo romance.
1. War

**1: War**

 **...**

The bridge between them lasts long after Snoke's death; once their minds are connected, the effect remains. It brings them visions of each other, visits of some specter they begin to know.

 **...**

He screams at her the first time he sees her after That Day, the day of explosions and attacks and betrayal, the day they fought together and against each other. The visions bear her to him at his most vulnerable moments and she's already seen him at his weakest. His pride is gone, given to her in pathetic pleas.

 _Join me. Please._

And so he screams. Screams at her for her betrayal and her refusal, at his parents for not being enough, at himself for being so weak.

There isn't fear in her eyes anymore, or even anger. There's pity.

His own anger turns to icy coldness, frigid avoidance after a few days. He refuses to acknowledge her presence, carries on with his life and duties like she isn't there, like he isn't counting the breaths until she leaves each time, like there isn't a stillness in her presence that he wants to disappear into.

Like he's been successful in forgetting how her touch felt on his skin when she reached out to him in front of the fire and told him he wasn't alone.

 _Liar_ , he thinks. She's the one who reached out and yet he's the one who ends up begging her to stay with him, to not leave him to his fate.

She doesn't know the words to say and he doesn't have any left, so he ignores her and she doesn't try to stop him. She wants to tell him that he misunderstands and misinterprets her actions and her meaning, that she'd chosen the way she did not out of betrayal of him, but out of an understanding that he wouldn't come away with her, wouldn't leave the darkness yet.

 _Yet_ , she still hopes, is the key word.

 _No one is ever truly gone._

But she can't assume things anymore; can't assume he'll accept the light again, can't assume he'll have mercy against what's left of the Rebellion for her sake, can't assume he'll use his power for good. She can't assume he'll come to her in peace if she waits long enough for him to.

They watch each other change out of the corners of their eyes through the weeks that follow. She notices that he's lost weight and has dark circles under his eyes. He notices that the weight of her role in the Resistance is taking a toll on her, forcing her to lose her innocent optimism, hardening her by experience. She stays cheerful through it all, but she can't hide herself from him the way she's learning to with others. He appears in her most quiet moments and she in his, in the moments where they're hiding from the rest of the world. There's a nakedness in such quiet chambers; a bare truth. They can't hide anything from each other even if they want to, if only the other person chooses to look.

She guesses he doesn't sleep well, but doesn't know it for sure until she sees him sleeping for the first time during the ninth visit when she's returning late from a mission. His brow is furrowed, eyes screwed shut, curled into a half-fetal position, arms tight around his body. He mutters something, but she can't make it out. He's fighting with someone in his sleep; perhaps an unseen enemy, perhaps himself. She sees the war he feels then and it moves her towards him, to kneel at his side and touch his shoulder.

He's a light sleeper and jerks awake, staring over his shoulder into her empathetic eyes.

"You were dreaming," she starts to say.

"I know what I was doing," he spits back, angry as he first was That Day, but then it drains away and he's just tired again. "It happens every night," he says, more low. "You should've just left me to it."

But he doesn't turn to go back to sleep, back to his war. He rolls over to lay on his back and stare at the metal-gray ceiling. He can see her in his periphery, unmoving from her position kneeling by his bed, and he waits for her to speak first.

"There's a divide between us now," she says softly. He can't tell if she regrets it or not, this schism, but her tone is gentle. "Do you feel it?"

 _Yes_ , he nearly says. He does.

Her question goes unanswered, but they both know the words that lie in the silence between them.

"You're still not alone." She finally says, seeming to know their time is drawing to an end for the night. "I know you think I betrayed you, and maybe I did, but I still understand."

She understands everything but his motivation for trying to rule. And maybe she understands that too, to some extent. He's been searching for justification, for proof that he was right to leave the Light and go to the Dark, and he can't find justification under Snoke's leadership after Han. So he thinks maybe if he's leading, he can find his own way and—

And do what? Find his own way how? She doesn't know. She only knows he's lashing out desperately. He's spiraling.

She's had a lot of time to think in the past few weeks about their choices, his and hers, on That Day. She'd shut the ramp in his face That Day and would again because she knows now he wasn't ready to come with her and still isn't, but she's watching his loneliness and shame tear him apart from the inside out and she doesn't have it in her to hate him or to let him be punished so severely. Not when she knows him the way she does, not when she's seen a future for him so full of life and hope, even if he's not choosing it for himself.

He still doesn't say anything for a moment.

"You might think you do," he says, and the implication is clear. _You don't understand my shame. You don't understand why I've done what I have. You don't understand._

"It's not too late," she starts, but he holds up a hand, expression unchanging.

"Please," he says, and she's surprised to hear the emotion in his voice that his face doesn't betray. "Don't."

When he finally looks over at her to speak to her, to tell her that today isn't the day, not after that dream, the dream he keeps having of the look in Han's eyes before he fell to his death, she's gone and the visit's over.

 **...**

The next time is different, although it's several days before they see each other again. It's the longest period they've gone without a visit since the whole thing started, since the bridge was formed. When he sees her, she's shivering. She's somewhere cold, though he can't see where, and she doesn't have much protection from the elements. She looks miserable.

When she sees him too, she doesn't pay him much heed, blowing air that isn't even warm into her shaking hands. She's used to him ignoring her and figures he probably will this time too, but he surprises her by taking off his cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. She can feel the warmth of it galaxies away.

"Th-thank you," she shivers through numb lips.

He wonders if laying his lips over hers would warm them, help her teeth to stop chattering, and the thought lingers no matter how hard he tries to shake it.

"Don't." He replies. "Just repaying a favor." _So I'm not in your debt._

She doesn't question it or challenge it. He doesn't say much after that; he just sits there next to her and waits for the visit to pass. It isn't the silence of avoidance or dismissal, but a silence of shared misery and minute acceptance of their unintentional and unescapable bond.

This is how it is. He's stuck with her. And while he can't forgive or forget what seems to him a betrayal, he can't ignore her any longer. Not after that night, not after she said he wasn't alone again. He doesn't believe the words she says, but he knows that she does, that she honestly thinks she can understand him and see him. And maybe she does to some degree, but he can't even imagine her still speaking to him if she truly understood him, truly saw him for everything he was.

She'd been right before; he is a monster.

It's like that the next few visits too. Silent, but not cold. Begrudging acceptance of her presence.

And then he finds her crying one day and it cuts him to the bone.

He's seen it before, seen her face marred by tears, and two of the three times were because of him, but the impact is no less this time.

He doesn't know what to do, so he steps to her side and sits next to her and waits. His presence brings on fresh tears, although he isn't sure if it's because she doesn't want to see him or if it's for some other reason.

"I'm tired," she says, wiping at her cheeks in frustration. "Tired of fighting." Fighting a war he's waging against her and the people she's chosen over him. Fighting against him and his pull.

"Then stop," he says. _Stop fighting_.

"I can't," she replies and looks straight at him, red-rimmed brown eyes staring into his. "I won't."

He concedes this point. He knew that would be her response.

"Then stop fighting _me_ ," he says and surprises even himself with the gentleness of his voice. He'd meant for it to come out differently, although he's not sure how.

She doesn't reply to that, but he feels her breath still when he reaches for her face and slowly, carefully wipes the tear tracks from her cheeks. His touch is gentle, nearly reverent despite his apparent anger towards her only days before. She's something to be handled carefully, no matter the choices she's made that took her away from him.

"Truce?" He asks, and she feels herself nod. They have to fight on the battlefield, but they're stuck with each other in private and it's wearing them both down to continue that fight, that war at all times. At a certain point, it starts to feel pointless.

And so it begins; the temporary markers of a friendship, blurred and strangled by blood and violence and war, but still there all the same. They both know it won't last –– it can't –– but they're both willing to ignore that truth for just a few moments every day if it means finding a minute of peace in an otherwise grueling world.

It's never awkward, their interactions, even though it probably should be. They don't need words to speak, so even when words fail — which they often do — there's only ever tension, but no uncertainty. There's a shifting silence between them; they understand each other even when they argue.

They're careful not to touch at first. It seems like an unspoken truth that neither of them can afford to touch the other again. It had unforeseen consequences last time.

 _Join me. Please._

But soon enough they both remember how the touch of the other felt and wonder if it can really be so wrong, if they're already friendly and nothing earth-shattering is coming of it.


	2. Peace

**2: Peace**

 **...**

The war hits her harder than it does him, but they don't talk about it. He doesn't have anyone left that he hasn't pushed away, no one he even cares about except her and maybe his mother, if he could ever forgive her for her faults. But Rey's finding her place among the ranks of the Resistance, finding her family. She bonds with Poe over a cracked-open X-Wing before a mission, engine grease on their hands and BB-8 burbling cheerfully in the background. She notices his smile flashes more brightly than Jakku's sun and feels her cheeks heating. When Kylo appears, watching silently, she feels like she's betraying someone, but she doesn't know who.

She bonds with Leia as well, although thankfully Kylo — Ben — doesn't make an appearance during their time together. It starts with the Falcon and talking about Han, but then progresses to a mutual understanding that they'll both fight to the death and even sacrifice themselves to make sure the First Order doesn't win. Rey doesn't tell her about the Force connection or the visits. She somehow knows it simply wouldn't help. Leia asks her once about Kylo and how he seemed. Rey doesn't know how to answer. Before she can stutter out a sentence, Leia nods and moves on. She doesn't want to hear the answer Rey has just as much as Rey doesn't want to say it. Thinking back on it later, Rey resolves to answer "I have hope," if the question is posed again.

It isn't.

She starts out trying to find cheer in the midst of war, trying to establish some sense of normalcy for herself and for the people around her, but then she starts losing those people. Suddenly, someone she's shared a laugh with isn't there anymore, and it hits her in the gut. She cries at first for everyone who dies, which is how Kylo finds her once, but then her tears start drying more quickly and she starts to understand the missions have to continue regardless.

She becomes more accustomed to the war that Kylo has been fighting for a long time now.

And she tries not to think about the fact that the only reason she has to fight it at all is because of him and his refusal to turn.

They start sparring sometimes after she patches together Anakin's old lightsaber. The kyber crystal she uses has faults in it, but it's the best she can find for now. He finds her practicing with some ancient sphere droids stowed away in the Falcon. He can't see her surroundings, but he'd recognize those old droids anywhere.

"You'll get better more quickly if you practice with someone," he says.

"There isn't anyone," she replies, matter of fact, still focusing on the droids. "Everyone's busy." With the war they should be fighting too.

Kylo almost smirks at that. For being the Supreme Leader of the First Order, he seems to have a lot of free time in his hands.

"I'm not," he states before he realizes what he's doing. His words from the forest, his offer is echoing back to him in his own voice. _You need a teacher._

She glances at him over her shoulder. Her gaze is sharp. He doesn't doubt she's also thinking about their time in that forest, the snow crunching under their feet, the ground growling beneath them, the trees quaking and falling around them.

"Alright," she says, signaling for the droids to stop and turning towards him, but she isn't prepared for the sight of him drawing his lightsaber. She'd learned to be afraid of that cross-guarded saber once, to be afraid of _him_. It feels like so long ago now, now that she knows him, but that's the same saber that killed Han, and as much as she wants Kylo — Ben — to be redeemed, his blade glows blood-red.

He's killed so many people. She's getting good at forcing herself not to think about the war when she's with him, but this is a vivid reminder. He's killed _so many people_ —

It's the calm in his eyes that brings her back to him, to remembering who he is, what he is. Both the good and the bad.

Conflicted is too simple a word for it.

She attacks first.

 **...**

They argue sometimes, often about nothing. It's tension from the war spilling over into their conversations.

Rey starts noticing there are things she simply can't tell him, like where she is, who she's with, what she's been working on. And because she eats, breathes, and sleeps for the Rebellion, it's hard.

She doesn't know why she keeps coming back, keeps returning to Kylo. He appears in front of her and she leads him to somewhere safe, somewhere secret where they won't be overheard. Or, more realistically, she won't be overheard seemingly talking to herself. And even though they don't have much to talk about, talk they do.

Rey tells him snippets of her childhood, how she'd been defenseless in that desert against exploitation of anyone who cared to look at her, how she'd settled at the edge of town, how she'd started wondering sometimes if she'd remember how to speak when she went for long stretches without seeing anyone other than Unkar Plutt. No one's ever cared to hear it before, but he sits attentive, eyes fixed on her face, solemn, sorrowful, empathetic.

It's this that draws her, she realizes. This attentiveness. This care, for better or worse.

 **...**

When he listens to her speak, he can see her sorrows plainly, painfully. When she speaks to him, she forgets the mask of bravado and cheerfulness she always presents to everyone else. Perhaps because he isn't around her, she can let herself slip. She doesn't worry about him worrying.

It's amazing to him that someone with so much pain could also have so much Light. Her pain makes him wonder how he would've coped in her situation, if he would've survived. His unknowing prediction to Snoke had turned out to be right: _She's stronger than she knows._ He'd meant her Force ability at the time, but at some point it had gone beyond that. She's strong enough to bear the weight of them both on her shoulders and still smile.

And smile she does. It's rare that he sees her smile because of him; the times he sees her happy are mostly around others, in moments he accidentally interrupts or intrudes upon. When the visits first started happening, he minded the interruption of his own daily routine; as it continues, he minds the interruption of hers.

It feels voyeuristic, watching the scenes of her life unfold only by the expressions on her face and understanding that he's never made her laugh the way he sees others do, although he doesn't know who those others are. There's a hollowness in his chest at this realization that makes him uncomfortable, but the truth sticks. If it's joy she's looking for, it won't be his company she seeks out.

He knows her faults. She's too generous, too eager to please, too ready to form attachments. Her problem is an excess of everything but self-esteem.

She knows his faults too. He's the opposite of her; the only thing he has in excess is a paranoia of those around him and an understanding that no one will fight for him, even the people who were supposed to.

He tells her about his childhood bitterly, spitting out the words one by one. His mother had been preoccupied with forming a new government and fighting the remnants of the Empire; his father had been flighty and noncommittal, destined to eternally be flying off somewhere; his uncle always had his mind on maps, ancient texts, and Force-sensitives. He hadn't had a bad life, one always balancing on the edge of starvation like she had, but it was a lonely one nonetheless.

She listens with the same seriousness he does to her. When he falls silent, she reaches forward without thinking.

"You're not alone anymore," she says, echoing her words from before, and he sees in her eyes the weaknesses he could exploit in that exact moment if he only chooses to. Her vulnerability, her trust, her desperate yearning for connection, her willingness to ignore his own faults for a few minutes for the sake of forgetting her loneliness. He sees all of it and hesitates, but reaches out and takes her hand anyway.

He's more nervous in that moment than he has been in a long time and he isn't even sure why.

Later, that night, he realizes he has the ability to hurt her now, emotionally and physically and verbally. But the thought of it, the thought of using this information against her and for her harm makes his lungs feel constricted, like he's fighting for breath against himself.

The next day, she asks the question she's asked before but never gotten an answer to.

"I understand being alone and being angry. But why'd you—" She still finds it difficult to say. He knows what's coming, what question she's going to ask, but doesn't stop her. "Why'd you kill him?" She forces it out like she's struggling against herself in order to say it.

The answer should be simple, he knows. _To let the past die._ To move further into the Dark. To surrender his past life in a way he wouldn't be able to if Han was still alive. Han, for all his mistakes and failures, had been the one to teach Ben how to fly, had let him sit in his lap during lightspeed and marvel at the stars outside as they whirled past, had taught him how to gamble and cheat and lie, but also what it meant to live boldly.

The answer isn't simple.

"I thought it's what I had to do," he finally says after a long moment of silence. "I thought it's what I was called to do."

He'd thought killing Han would stop his inner conflictions and now he's haunted by the ghost of the father who'd never known how to be there.

"And now?"

"I don't know." He doesn't know how to continue. "There's no point now. He's dead. It's done."

She doesn't say anything to this and he knows it's the wrong thing to have said. She doesn't believe in his philosophy of letting the past die. There's a reason we have a history, she's argued with him before; we have a history so we can learn.

She doesn't lead him to somewhere secret, somewhere safe the next few times he sees her. She looks unready to see him, uncomfortable at his appearance like he's disappointed her, and he's well-accustomed to that look.

But eventually she's willing to spar again. Kylo slips in lessons where he can. What some of the different forms are, how they can be adapted to her fighting style. When he tells her this, her eyes are wide.

"I thought you just _attacked_ ," she says, and this forces a rare smile out of him.

He also mentions she'd do well with a double-bladed saber. When her eyes widen at this too, he doesn't even need her to ask the question to know what she's thinking: _There's more kinds of sabers?_

She's always increasingly aware of how much more he knows than she does. She's spent her entire life living on a desert planet, separate from all of civilization, staring at mechanical equipment day after day and night after night. She doesn't know how to eat with utensils, how to eat properly at all, how to small talk, how to walk around a market and pick out what she needs. She can learn those things, sure, but the fact that she needs to, that she should, that she has the promise of a life outside of the one she's spent scavenging and surviving—

The thought is exhilarating, breathtaking, overwhelming.

He doesn't know his blessings.

She catches him eating once. It seems anachronistic, him eating out of a plain white bowl in his full regalia and cape.

"When you walk, does that thing billow behind you? Is that why you wear it?"

She asks it with humor, a barely suppressed smile, but he doesn't reply; he just raises an eyebrow and continues eating.

They lapse into silence only broken by the sound of his chewing and his spoon scraping the bowl. It's comfortable, intimate. She's lying in bed staring at the ceiling and he's sitting next to her at the table in his quarters, eating dinner.

Sometimes she's overwhelmed by people. After living so long without people, knowing so many so soon is both amazing and exhausting. She finds she can't live without contact, but still needs quiet time to herself. And as she lies there, silent, and lets Kylo eat in peace, she realizes that this counts as a time of quiet, of serenity.

She doesn't count him as another person to block out. Maybe it's because he's always there and she doesn't have a choice; maybe it's because there's an unexpected peace to be found in his presence.

Either way, when the visit ends without either of them saying much and she's left alone in her bunk, the way she'd originally intended to be before he appeared, the room feels colder somehow, lonelier.

That feeling pushes her out of bed despite the hour and into the depths of the Falcon to tinker around. It isn't people she needs, she decides, it isn't _him_ ; it's work.

 **...**

"Being alone and lonely aren't the same thing," she tells him. "On Jakku, I had no one, but sometimes I had peace. Here, I have people, but only peace when—" She breaks off. He assumes she's going to say _when I connect to the Force_ or some other Light nonsense. When they change the subject, he doesn't pay much heed.

Being around her brings out the Light in him. He knows it, can feel it happening. It's not transformative; it doesn't make him into someone else. But sometimes he looks at her and thinks it might've been different if he could've been someone else, if he could've made her smile or laugh more, if he could've been there with her to share in her daily routine, if he could've crossed the chasm. There's this barrier between them, this divide, and he knows it would be unfair to them — both of them, but especially her — if he fought it, fought to bridge it.

 **...**

He lets some of his duties to the First Order slip. The words in the briefings roll over his head, tuned out, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not. He doesn't want to hear the officers' speculation about where the Rebels are, doesn't want to be tempted to board his ship and head there himself. Hux eyes him with disdain more and more often as his attention seems further and further away, but is cowed into silence by what he knew would happen if he opened his mouth against the leadership — or lack thereof — of Kylo Ren.

 **...**

She reveals her history on Jakku to him in layers, whether intentionally or not. Sometimes things surface with time and natural events, things she hadn't been thinking about earlier, and she processes it aloud to him.

"I'm technically as much Unkar's property as one of the ships he had in that junkyard," she tells him. "Practically stolen, maybe, but nobody cared."

"Then," he corrects her quietly. _Nobody cared then._

The implication hangs in the air.

 **...**

He's over half a foot taller than her and she feels it most when he steps in close.

There isn't much reason for him to other than when they're sparring, but there's something about him in those moments that grips her, focuses her in razor-sharp. She's conscious of him, of his nearness, of the heat of his body even though he's thousands of parsecs away.

 _Don't be afraid. I feel it too._

Sometimes she wonders if he can read her eyes the way she often can his; she wonders if he can see her thoughts in her all-too-expressive face. She wonders what his reaction would be if he could, if he does. Maybe he's known this entire time and never said anything, let her figure it out for herself.

She doesn't know enough to be shy about it.

 **...**

He enjoys her innocence, her wide-eyed simplicity, her lack of deception. Everyone he's ever known has had an agenda and she's just trying to find her place in the world. She's a Light if there ever was one, usually beaming and at peace, sometimes contemplative and quiet, almost always sure of herself and her steps.

She's always been honest with him, even when she hated him. When she hated him, she hated him fully, without abashment, with such trust in her allies that she didn't even wait to hear his side before passing judgment on him.

 _You're a monster._

She grows ever more graceful in their sparring sessions. The fighting style she adopts is less aggressive than his, but also less choppy. Her movements flow together from one to the next. She practically lives connected to the Force. It's as simple, as innate as breathing for her. When they'd first started sparring, the specter of his saber would burn her if it connected to her skin; not badly, but enough to turn the skin red and tender. Now, it's rarer and rarer that he lands a blow.

He's calmer around her. Even when they argue, he finds it hard to stay angry for long. She's something he'd never realized he needed and now that he has it—

When she appears, he feels like he's come home.


	3. You

**3: You**

 **...**

She notices the subtle differences in the way everyone touches her.

Poe's casual, surprisingly gentle. A hand on her arm during conversation, a touch on her back when he walks by. It doesn't mean much to him. Leia's motherly, but detached. She touches her for reassurance, for comforting, sometimes on her shoulder and sometimes on her hand, and her hands are always warm. Finn is always very intentional in touching her, but he tries to hide it behind the same kind of casualness Poe wears through life. But the way he touches her belies this forced nonchalance; Finn treats her like she's fragile, like she's something that has to be protected, saved. It doesn't matter how much she practices with her saber in front of him, it doesn't matter how many rocks he sees her lifting with the Force — she's still something dainty, something slighter than him that he needs to look after, watch out for. And she understands why, she understands it's simply part of his loyal nature, but she's also starting to realize that his dedication to her protection is dangerous, that he has and will continue to put her life before that of the Resistance.

And then there's Kylo.

It's rare that he touches her, but he hesitates whenever he does and then lingers before pulling away. She can tell he's thinking about his movements sometimes, careful not to come too close, but sometimes he also pulls closer than usual, like he's drawn to her, enticed, magnetized.

But there's a truth to the touches of Poe, Leia, and Finn that Kylo's lacks. It's like there's a veil between them; she can feel the pressure of his touch and the warmth of his hands, but it's when he touches her that she's most aware he isn't really there with her.

His hands are always warm too, always gentle, always careful. Not because he thinks she's fragile or needs protecting, but because he thinks it's his responsibility to protect her from himself.

He knows his own strength, his own darkness, his own monstrosity. He knows the blood that's on his hands — the same hands that are always warm. He knows that touching her means getting that blood on her too, smearing scarlet across her creamy skin.

 **...**

He spars once without his shirt. She loses.

 **...**

"Why'd you kill Snoke?" She asks. There's a pause and he doesn't meet her eyes, so she thinks maybe she needs to explain the question. "I've been wondering. I'd thought originally that it was because you saw he was evil, but—" She breaks off for a moment. "But if you're continuing the war in his stead, that wasn't it. So why?"

"You."

He says it simply, but the revelation has weight. His eyes are on her now, serious and almost sad. He says it the way he did in that interrogation cell, wondering but also confused, reluctant to face the truth he's speaking. He himself barely understands his actions, barely fathoms the depth of this reality.

She's an ocean and he's drowning, or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe he's all around her and she's struggling to find her way through him, to him.

"Why me?" She's hoping for the answer she already knows is true, but she wants — needs — him to say it.

"You know why," he replies, eyes still on hers.

It hangs in the silence between them for a long moment. But then he looks away and she releases the breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

 **...**

He's vulnerable, laid bare to the sky and to her. He's just a kid who used to have a mask to hide himself behind and he's sitting in front of a girl whose eyes shine brighter than his future.

 **...**

They're in the middle of one of their arguments. He finds himself echoing his own words, the mantra he keeps repeating to himself.

"You have to let the past die," he says, his words bitten off — harsh, frustrated. "There's nothing but pain there for you."

"I have," she replies, calm in the face of his sparking temper. It's something she's grown used to. "My past is on Jakku. My parents." There's a glitter of tears in her eyes, but she pushes forward. "The Rebellion may be _your_ past, but it's _my_ future."

That statement stops him.

Her future.

"Why can't I be?" He asks, but he knows the answer, even if she won't say it. He isn't deserving, isn't worthy, isn't a whole host of things.

He says it low enough that he thinks maybe she doesn't hear him, but her response comes after a short pause.

"You could be," she replies.

It isn't the answer he's expecting.

There's a moment of long silence. Their words settle between them, hanging in the air, both those said and unsaid. He watches her and she watches him, waiting for the other to decide, to choose, to concede.

Neither move. Both wait.

"I can't come back," he says, and there's finality in his eyes. Before she can say anything else, he's gone.

 **...**

The next visit, they spar. They don't mention the argument from before, the words said, his question, her answer. She's having a rough day and it shows in her saber work. Her form is more aggressive than usual, but her movements are as graceful, balanced, focused as ever. Her muscles strain against him. She's determined to win at least this fight if she can't win the ones they wage with their words.

When they're done, she's drenched with sweat and victorious, but dissatisfied. He sees it in her face.

"Did you ever laugh when you were young?" She asks.

Whatever he's expecting, it isn't that.

He doesn't know what to say at first. It seems to be becoming a trend with him and her; she surprises him, he's quiet.

"I suppose."

She shakes her head absently, reaching for her canteen.

"I've been trying to imagine you laughing and I can't seem to."

She falls quiet, staring into the distance, eyes down, looking somewhere past the floor, like she can see into infinity. He shifts uncomfortably and she comes back to herself.

She looks at him. Again, he can't tell what she's thinking. It's unnerving for him, not being able to read her.

"What if we were on the same side?" She asks. He dares to hope for a split second, but then realizes she's not asking because she's doubting her decision. She's asking because she's hoping he'll doubt his.

She's asking out of innocence, not because she realizes the implication of the question. She knows that he's inexplicably pulled to her the same way she is to him, that this force is her weapon just like it's his.

But two can play at that game.

He stands to his feet.

"What if we were on the same side?" He repeats her words back to her, taking a step towards her and then another. Just one more and then he's in front of her.

 _He's over half a foot taller than her and she feels it most when he steps in close._

And he's close now — close enough she can feel his breath ghosting across her lips. He reaches for her but then hesitates, as he always does, and she realizes in that moment that everything about his face is hard and straight and solemn except his lips. His lips are full, almost luxurious in the context of his otherwise almost militaristically composed face, his long straight nose, his high cheekbones.

His eyes seek hers. What he's looking for, she doesn't know.

And then he finally touches her, his warm hand settling on her forearm but sliding up up up to her shoulder and to the elegant slope of her neck. And then he leans down to her, pulling her towards him, but then pauses with only an inch left between them, their lips not quite touching. He hesitates again. Her eyes are wide. She's acutely aware then of how close he is, what his intentions are, and — overwhelmingly — the conflict she sees in his face before he closes the last bit of distance and presses his lips to hers.

His lips are as soft as they look, and the rest of him is unexpectedly yielding too at first. His long fingers wind into her hair and pull her closer, his other arm slipping around her and his hand resting at the small of her back, shifting to the curve of her hip. It feels like a dream. He's so close, but she can't smell him, can't taste him, can only feel the pressure and fullness of his mouth.

It's a single kiss and then he slowly pulls away, lingering, as he always does.

He can't hide the hope in his eyes when he looks at her, the plea, or the fact that he's just exposed his hand.

 _Join me. Please._

There's a long moment of tension, of silence and questioning. She's frozen in his arms, processing as best as she can, eyes scanning and examining his face, his gaze. She's never seen this, never known what it is or what it means to kiss a lover.

She looks for the conflict in his eyes that's always there, that was there just before, but right now there's only her. There's only the dawning realization that she's in his hands and she's solid and whole, the way she's always been, but also a recognition of how wide her eyes are, how good she is down to her core, how innocent, and how sick he is in comparison, and how the hands slick and dripping with blood are now touching her, smearing—

She reaches for him again to soothe him, to solve the waking consciousness in his eyes, and this time she could swear she tastes him, hot and soft and full. He reaches for her and pulls her flush against him and his kisses come faster, rougher, nearing on desperation, and his hands start exploring the folds of her clothes and how they fall apart. She loses herself in him and his fingers that dance like a fire across her skin—

And then suddenly he's tearing himself away, he's missing from her arms and hands, and then the visit's over and he's gone, vanished.

It's the emptiest she's ever felt, the most bewildered, the most drained.

 **...**

If he'd been hoping to make her doubt, it has an adverse effect.


	4. Breaking

**4: Breaking**

 **...**

It's days before she sees him again. It's the longest they've ever gone since the visits began and she worries.

When he finally appears, it's obvious he doesn't want to.

He's sitting on his bunk, head in black-gloved hands, and he jumps when she appears. His face is tear-streaked.

She reaches for him and he leans away.

"I can't," he says, and if she has any hope that the fact she hasn't seen him in four days is a coincidence, it's dashed when he abruptly cuts off their connection and she's suddenly staring at a blank wall in the kitchen.

She hadn't known he'd figured out how to control it, how to shut her out.

 **...**

She reaches out to him across the bridge a few times a day, testing the waters and trying to gauge his mental state, his emotions. She's worried about him, about _them_. She doesn't know what happened, what went wrong, what he's thinking. She only knows she's worried and he's not talking.

His shields are always up and iron-strong.

 **...**

What if they _were_ on the same side?

He reaches for her again in a moment of weakness, of selfishness. He finds her asleep on her bunk, curled in around herself. She stirs when he touches her cheek, but there's no alarm or surprise in her face when she opens her eyes.

There's a lot she's wanted to say, but she can't remember any of it, and so she settles for silently reaching for his gloved hand.

He knows everything she wants to say anyway, she figures. He must.

"Ben," she starts, and his face contorts in pain before he can get himself under control or, at the very least, make it look like he had.

He feels things more strongly, more intensely than anyone she's ever known before.

"Don't call me that." He says, his voice raspy and harsh. "That's not my name anymore."

"But you're still the same person," she says, sitting up. He shifts backwards to accommodate her. "You're still in there somewhere. I know it."

She reaches for him slowly, carefully. Her hand goes to his face; her thumb traces the scar she left, deep and red, cracking his right cheek open like a bolt of lightning. He watches her, wary and apprehensive, tracking her every movement, but he still startles when she touches him, like the fact that she's touching him — _wants_ to touch him — is surprising.

"Why won't you let me in?" She asks.

"You're already inside me," is the answer she receives, bitten short and packed with impact and implication.

 **...**

He's like a ghost hovering on the edge of her periphery, always letting her glimpse him but never see him fully. He's hiding from her and maybe from himself too, but losing both wars.

 _I feel it again. The call to the Light._

This time, he doesn't have anyone to pray to anymore. He's pushed himself further and further into the Dark, looking for _his_ place in it all, but all he's found there is torment and bitterness, and he feels farther from his goal, from his idol Vader, than ever. Whenever he tries to speak into the emptiness, into the void, she's the one who comes to his mind.

And so he prays. At first to the Darkness, but then eventually to her.

He prays for her to stop pulling.

She hears him from across the emptiness, from across the void, and she wants so desperately to tell him the same thing he told her once.

 _It's okay. I feel it too._

She believes, _knows_ he'll come to her when it's time.

 **...**

The bridge starts wearing down without use, stretching taut and thin, weakening the connection bit by bit, hour by hour they don't speak.

She starts feeling like she's underwater; everything around her is muted, moving slowly as if through a thick syrup. And still she waits.

 **...**

He finds he can't escape her any more now than he could at the start. She's in the silence of his quarters, in the preoccupied chatter of the bridge, in the darkness of the galaxies outside, in the light of the stars he watches at the window. She's the beginning and end, _his_ beginning and end.

 **...**

His defenses are down when he sleeps and she can slip through the cracks of his armor to him. He's a restless sleeper, tormented by his own mind in dreams and reality alike, and she can't touch him for fear it'll wake him. But she sits there with him in the darkness and hopes maybe her presence lends him some peace, even if he won't know she's been there in the morning.

She waits for him to give in. Maybe not to the Light, not yet, but at least to her.

He doesn't catch her the first few times, but around the sixth, his eyes open.

He doesn't say anything. He just gives her one of those looks that let her know he's thinking something, even if she doesn't know what it is, and then he turns away from her and faces the wall of his quarters.

He doesn't cut off the connection though. And she thinks maybe this is telling, maybe it's a sign. They're still in this silence, unmoving, not speaking, barely even breathing.

When he finally goes back to sleep, it's peaceful.

 **...**

The next day, she finds him alone, with tears on his face, holding his lightsaber, stooped and hunched and broken.

She has no context for it. She's felt their bond weakening slowly but surely, tearing at the seams, taking pieces of her with it, and she hasn't felt him all day. She goes to him immediately, reaches for him, but he jerks away and turns his back.

"How could you do this to me?" He asks, his voice breaking. " _Why_ are you doing this?"

She knows what he means. He's talking about her pursuit of him, the peace she's trying to lend.

"Because I care." She says, and it has as much finality and firmness as anything he's ever said to her. "You deserve someone who cares, Kylo."

She's careful to use the name he goes by now, the name he masquerades by. She wants him to know she sees him at his darkest, that it's him she's speaking to and not just his younger self.

"I don't," he says, and then repeats more insistently. "I _don't_."

His lightsaber ignites in his hand and he turns as if to threaten her, holding it up towards her face the same way he did in that forest, but she stands firm and stares him down. They both know the blade can't hurt her in the state they find themselves, or at least not worse than the burns she'd gotten when they'd first started sparring.

"Okay," she says, and as usual her answer surprises him. "What if you don't deserve it? What if you don't deserve someone who cares about you? It doesn't change the fact that I do care."

He freezes, stops, stares. She tries to give him time, but it seems to just pour out.

"The question of whether you're deserving doesn't change where we are," she says. "It doesn't change the fact that you still have a decision in front of you, and that you'll have that decision in front of you every day of the rest of your life." She hesitates and then, seeming to understand the crossroads they're at, blurts again, "What if we were on the same side?"

This time, she has a better understanding of what it means.

That question brings back flashes of her lips on his, of his fingers in her hair and hers on his back, of the solidness of her and the warmth she radiated in his arms. She's a sun and he's a moon. He has no light from himself, but through her—

"I love you," he blurts. There's no finesse in the way he says it, no plan. "And I hate it. I hate _you_."

What a paradox it is to hate someone because you love them.

"I know," she says gently. _I know._

They stand there regarding each other. His lightsaber flickers off and he lowers his arm. He's caught off guard, unsure of what to do.

This time, it's her that steps forward, finds her way to him. He's so tall, she has to pull him down to her, but he doesn't struggle. She kisses first the three freckles on his right cheek near the scar, then second the length of his jaw, pressing closer and closer down his neck. She can feel his breath catch in his throat, can sense the moment his defenses completely drop and he's hers, if only for a few minutes.

She'll take it. It's progress.

She kisses him on his lips then, sweetly and too lightly for his taste in that moment. His fingers snake into her hair and he pulls her in closer, dives into her, devours her.

She is the Light.

 **...**

The first visit after that, they both hesitate, unsure if their experience had actually just been a dream, a vision of longing stolen in seconds of sleep.

They reach for each other at the same time.

 **...**

They enjoy three days of bliss, of shy touches, of stolen kisses, of peace pure and simple.

On the fourth day, he wakes up with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He can feel she's terrified, shocked, sickened, _angry_. When he sees her, she's crying, running, and when he calls her name, worried and understanding this isn't a usual war zone situation, the glare she sends him—

It shakes him to his core.

 **...**

He sees her again a few hours later. She's tired, drained, sucked dry by only a short time passing. She's still crying softly, but it seems like she's trying to hide it. He reaches for her and she jerks away violently, like his touch burns her, marks her.

"How could you." She says, low in her throat, not even looking at him. "How the kriff _could you_."

He doesn't know what she's referring to. He stutters for words, to ask what she's talking about, but she doesn't let him have the opportunity.

"Leia's _dying_."

There's a lot she doesn't say. _Because of you. Because of your war. Because of the choice you've made every day for the past five months. Because of your refusal to turn, to show mercy, to relent, to concede — to be worthy._

She doesn't refer to Leia as his mother.

And suddenly he understands that if he'd thought he was undeserving before, he's irredeemable now.

All he can manage is the beginning of his denial of responsibility before the connection is severed. He feels the loss of her suddenly, immediately, keenly.

The loss of his mother's presence follows soon after.

 _It's the emptiest he's ever felt, the most bewildered, the most drained._

He goes numb.

 **...**

It was Hux. Frustrated by Kylo's absence and lack of drive to finish this pathetic war, Hux had taken over the strategic meetings, used his power to plan attacks. Kylo had stopped fighting, but Rey never had, the Resistance never had, and neither had Hux.

He'd planned the assassination carefully, knowing this could be the blow that crippled the Resistance once and for all.

When it's successful, he smiles with satisfaction and basks in his own glory.

Two hours later, he asphyxiates on his own windpipe for that very success, Kylo Ren standing in front of him with his arm outstretched, his hand throttling the air.

 **...**

Rey never allows for an explanation. In this, as in other instances, she's steadfast in her sureness.

When it first happens, he holds onto a desperate hope that she'll realize what he was trying to say even if she refuses to see him, that she'll come back to him when she's ready. But he's taken aback by the blunt force of her anger. It lashes out at him from galaxies away, clawing at him when he tries to focus on war strategy or on his saber form in the absence of her presence. It lingers, grows over the following weeks. He's hit a switch in her, changed her, shaken something loose, unleashed it.

She feels betrayed by him, tricked. She believes he lulled her into peace, whether intentionally or not, and now she's lost mentors, friends, and maybe the war. The desperation turns her darker, more determined, more reckless, and unlocks pieces of herself that she'd previously believed never existed.

As time passes, he realizes she isn't going to let it go and, more obviously, that he doesn't deserve for her to. Even if it wasn't his decision to assassinate Leia, it was still his decision to continue waging the war in the first place. If it's his war, he's responsible for the outcomes. The death of his entire family; the overtaking and exploitation of worlds and planets inhabited by uninvolved creatures; Rey's changing.

After a few weeks, the bridge breaks completely and their tie is severed.

 **...**

He doesn't see her again until their next That Day, the day of their unavoidable final confrontation, and on That Day he sees that her blade glows not with the blue of Obi-Wan or the green of Luke, but the purple she's chosen as her own emblem, the purple of those who've found the balance between the Light and the Dark.

 **...**

 **Author's Note:** I hated writing the second half of this chapter because I ship them so hard, but this is how I see their relationship realistically going before IX. I'm not predicting whether or not he'll turn, but I know they have to handle Carrie Fisher's death in the storyline somehow, and I suspect they're going to say she was assassinated in the opening crawl. Unfortunately, I don't foresee any potential relationship surviving the death of his mother.

Additionally, I think Luke was the last Jedi, regardless of how powerful Rey is in the Force. She might rebirth a different class of Jedi, but I think Luke is the last of the old order. The problem I've always had with the old order was their incomplete understanding of the Force and how it works, always focusing solely on the Light and on perfecting an emotionless, purely rational approach to life. But how amazing would it be if Rey developed the new order by understanding the balance between the two and going from there?

Anyway. Thank you for sticking with me through this ride! Let me know what you think about the ending and the story overall!


End file.
